


Number One Fan

by nschimm (skullsulker)



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: 90s AU, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Denial of Feelings, Drinking, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Groupies, Homelessness, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mullet Stan Pines, Needles, Period-Typical Homophobia, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Harm, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt, The Flesh Curtains, flesh curtains rick - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2020-11-28 02:49:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20959220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skullsulker/pseuds/nschimm
Summary: Stan Pines, a hardcore Flesh Curtains fan, gets a chance to meet the band. His first impression not only leaves something to be desired, it also gets him roped into a strange situation.-90s grunge AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so, i definitely started this fic with the intention of keeping it short and sweet. then i started writing it. i am a fool.
> 
> the first chapter is pretty lighthearted, some brief suggestive moments but overall there's no sexy stuff. this chapter contains needles, but not for drug use. and Stan is totally straight, guys. totally. one hundred percent. he's never even looked at a man in his whole life. 
> 
> i'm joking. anyways like i said this chapter is pretty pg-13, so proceed accordingly. i'll post a summary much like this one before each chapter, that way you know what you're getting yourself into

# 

He made it past security. By some miracle, he made it past security.

Ducking around the ticket booth was no problem. All he had to do was blend in with a group of strangers as they handed all of their tickets to the girl at the stand. That wasn’t too hard, given that most people there looked as haggard as Stan did. But security was hell-bent on patting everyone down. He thought for sure they were going to be able to tell he wasn’t supposed to be there, like they had some sort of secret vision that allowed them to see when somebody had paid and when somebody snuck in.

“You alright, kid?” one of the guards asked him. “You look like you’re gonna puke.”

Stan flashed a nervous grin. “‘M fine. It’s just- this is my favorite band.”

The security guard chuckled and nodded to let him through. “Have fun. Be careful, these shows tend to get a little intense.”

That was an hour ago. The opening band came and went, leaving this field full of sweaty strangers to fester amongst themselves. The crowd was antsy. They wanted to start shoving and they wanted it  _ now _ .

Stan was hanging around one of the beer kiosks. He figured there’d be plenty of time to grab a drink before the band started. After all, it didn’t seem like they were in a huge hurry to get on stage. He tipped his drink back and observed as the concertgoers passed by. People watching was turning out to be one of his favorite hobbies. 

He was doing it outside of a music store when he heard someone mention The Flesh Curtains for the first time. The stranger heard him laugh at the name and gave him a look. She said something along the lines of  _ don’t knock it ‘till you try it _ before sauntering away in impossibly high platform boots. Stan stole one of their CDs shortly afterwards, perfectly happy to give them a listen.

Alone in his car, parked in an abandoned lot with two bucks to his name, he sat and listened to The Flesh Curtains. Stan opened the CD cover’s booklet and flipped through to read the lyrics as they were sung.

Death, sex, sadness, destruction, drugs, anger. All the nasty emotions in the human mind were splayed out on each track like roadkill against the pavement. Stan looked at himself in the rear view mirror -  _ really _ looked at himself. Who he was, who he used to be, who he was going to be next. For the first time in a long time, he felt… okay. 

He stole every single one of their albums after that.

He learned all the words to their songs. Screamed them out as he sped down freeways, mumbled them to himself as he shoplifted groceries. Each CD came with a tiny booklet inside with all of the lyrics, unfolding to reveal a poster of the band members. Stan couldn’t help but idolize them. 

If MTV was airing an interview with The Flesh Curtains, Stan would glue himself to a television screen for its entirety. He was  _ obsessed _ with these guys. Birdperson, stoic and awkward, raising the bar for every single bass player on the planet. Squanchy wreaking havoc on the drums, completely glossing over the fact that he seemed to be a.. cat? A cat that likely had rabies with the way his mouth foamed when he was  _ really _ in the zone, setting the rhythm for every song.

And that damn singer-guitarist, Rick. 

He wasn’t attractive by any means. If anything, he was kind of ugly. Tall as all hell and rail thin with a stammer like nails on a chalkboard, Stan  _ should _ think he was an idiot.

Stan certainly shouldn’t be idolizing him the way he was.

In the interviews he watched, he noticed that Rick exuded some extreme “ _ I don’t give a fuck _ ” vibes. Maybe that’s what so many people loved about him, why girls would throw their underwear onstage.

_ If I was a girl _ , Stan thought to himself on more than one occasion,  _ I’d probably be doing the same thing. _

But he wasn’t, so he didn’t. 

Stan downed the remainder of his beer and began muscling his way to the front of the crowd. He wanted to get as close to the stage as he could. He wanted to see them up close and personal, but he’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t want them to see him as well. Deep down, Stan wanted to have a moment with these guys. He had a fantasy rattling around in his brain where one of the band members locks eyes with him, gives him a smile and a nod, and goes back to the song. It was silly and he knew it. Stupid, simple - and with the size of this crowd, impossible. He’d be lost in a sea of sweaty drunk bodies moshing like their lives depended on it. There was  _ no way _ any of them would pay him any attention.

The crowd suddenly picked up, a few groups of people applauding at the sight of one of the members behind the giant speakers.

Squanchy, the strange cat that Stan was so curious about, made his way to the drums positioned in the center of the stage. The crowd went completely bonkers, roaring as he gave his instrument a few experimental taps. He waved enthusiastically, pumping up the crowd, getting them to chant the band’s name. 

Sweaty fists punched the air, Stan’s included. Birdperson made his way onstage as well, picking up his bass to pluck at the strings. He nodded at the energy-rattled audience, somehow managing to get them even  _ more _ excited than they already were. 

BP walked briskly up to the main microphone to say, “Test, test. Can all of you hear me?”

The crowd went  _ nuts _ . Stan was up against the front rails waving madly, trying to grab the attention of either of them. 

He went unnoticed by either of the band members, but someone behind him tugged his shirtsleeve.

“Hey, big guy!” a woman’s voice shouted. Stan turned to face her. She continued, “I’m tryin’ to get Rick to notice me, could you lift me up on your shoulders? I wanna flash him.”

Stan agreed without a second thought. His head between some punk chick’s thighs? Absolutely. The potential to have Rick’s attention on him? He’d never say it, but that was almost equally as exciting to him.

A few awkward shuffles and she was propped up onto his shoulders, one hand tangled in his hair to hold her steady while the other waved frantically towards the band members on stage. 

The lights went out and the crowd was still.

Then, just as abruptly as the lights had gone out, everything sprung into action - Rick had joined his band, hyping up the crowd by striking a few chords on his guitar and banging his head to the rhythm Squanchy was producing on the drums. Stan lit up, screaming along with all the other concert-goers, desperately trying to keep the girl on his shoulders from falling off.

He felt her adjust herself, letting go of his hair so that - presumably - she could remove her shirt. Stan’s momentum swayed as she waved her arms frantically in the air.

Rick scanned the crowd, then stopped. He looked downright  _ carnivorous _ as he stared at the topless young woman.

He leaned into the mic and in a deep, husky tone, murmured, “I see you, sugar.”

Stan was afraid for a moment that his legs were going to turn into jelly. She shrieked in delight while Stan steeled his jaw, trying desperately to prevent his face from turning pink. 

The music was picking up speed, beginning to fall into a recognizable song. The young woman tugged her shirt back on and tapped Stan a few times to signal that she no longer needed to be on his shoulders. Which was good, because Stan decided that the best way to ignore his sudden arousal was to throw himself into the mosh pit. 

It was brutal. Stan was able to hold his own pretty well for the most part, but he was  _ definitely _ going to be leaving the show with more bruises than he had going into it. Everyone was sweating like pigs, screaming and swinging and shoving like it was the only thing keeping them sane.

Stan had never felt so alive. 

Rick certainly seemed to be having fun, too. At one point, a collection of bras tied to his mic stand, he pulled his shirt off, launching it into the crowd without a care in the world.

It may not seem like it to an outsider, but there’s a huge difference between a mosh pit and a riot. In that particular moment, with fans positively seething at the mouth, the line between the two was slightly blurred.

Stan was nowhere near it - he was still bumping elbows in the slightly-less-rioty part of the pit - but he watched the commotion unfold in front of him. It was mostly girls and young women tearing each other apart for a scrap of the shirt. After a few minutes, the crowd moved on, but Stan couldn’t stop thinking about how badly he wanted to have it. 

Rick ended a song on stage. There was a slight pause in the music before he spoke, “A-alright, bitches. This is- this is gonna be our last song f-f-for tonight.”

The crowd, Stan included, groaned.

“Yeah, well, tough titties,” Rick strummed his guitar thoughtfully. “What should we e-end on? There’s- we never, we never talked about which song we w-wanted to have as, as the grand finale.”

The three of them looked at each other nonchalantly, waiting for one of them to offer up a song.

Stan cleared his throat, trying to fix the hoarseness in his voice, before screaming, “ _ SEX IN SPACE! _ ”

The crowd picked up, cheering in agreement. It was one of their longer songs that started off hard with a lengthy drum solo, perfect for headbanging, and trailed off somberly towards the end. All in all, a great song to send everyone home to -  _ and _ it was almost six minutes. Rick grinned at the selection, then turned to BP and Squanchy for approval. Once he got two thumbs up, he leaned back into the mic.

“Alright, this one’s for you, man.”

For the second time that night, Stan was afraid that his legs were going to turn into jelly.

Squanchy hammered away on the drums, sending the metalheads in the crowd into violent disarray. Birdperson pushed the song along with his bass, then Rick joined in on the guitar.

After several minutes of hardcore instrumentals, Rick leaned in close to the mic, starting with a low, guttural moan that worked its way into a scream. Stan grinned as he rammed against other concertgoers.

The song started out describing rough, violent sex. There were several terms Stan had to look up after he first listened to it, then had to try to forget about. Freaky BDSM shit that he wanted very little to do with. 

On the other hand, some of the things described didn’t sound half bad, he just hadn’t heard of them before. He’d be willing to try them out,

_ Especially with Ri _ -

Stan shook his head to clear it of the thought, then rammed the left side of his body into some guy a little bit bigger than him.

He jostled Stan right back, and he was back into the swing of the pit. No more gay thoughts. None at all. 

Rick continued the song, sprinkling themes of depression and addiction in, parting from the sex talk to dive into some real shit.

“ _ And when all is said and done, everything covered in spit and cum, I’m left alone on the bathroom floo-oooooor _ -”

Stan swallowed a lump in his throat, feeling particularly moved by the ugliness of that line.

“ _ Open bottles of pills and rum, hope your ass gets hit by the doooo-ooooor- _ ”

He needed to take a break from the pit. It was slowing down anyways, the song growing less and less intense by the second. He parted from the violent section of the crowd, then maneuvered himself to the frontmost rails that kept the stage separated from the fans. He was  _ so close _ to Birdperson, who was completely in the zone of the song. He swayed gently to the rhythm, otherwise unmoving against the sea of frantic concertgoers.

BP glanced up. Since Stan was the only one who wasn’t thrashing, he stood out like a sore thumb.

And then.

The moment Stan had been fantasizing about.

They locked eyes for a second.

Stan waved lightly.

Birdperson gave him a nod.

And Stan shrieked like a little girl that just got a pony for Christmas.

Thankfully, it was drowned out by the music. Stan was positively giddy, grinning like an idiot, enjoying the show even more than he had been just a few seconds ago. 

The song continued, going from depression and addiction to the emptiness of space, drawing genius comparisons to stars exploding and imploding on each other, the euphoria of getting your rocks off while on drugs, the crushing loneliness of one night stands, the dark vacuum between each planet that stretched for incomprehensible distances - Stan had to choke back a tear. He didn’t know much about space or science, but he was all too familiar with the rest. 

It was coming to a close. Everything was almost over, and Stan would have to go back to living in his car. He let out a deep sigh. It was fun while it lasted, at least. He looked around the stage to capture a final image in his mind.

Wait a minute. There was an open door.

Stan hadn’t been able to see it from the mosh pit, but just to the side of the stage there was an entrance ramp that led to a wide-open hallway. All he had to do was jump over the metal rails and book it, and he could be backstage. 

He looked around again, this time to check for security guards. Sure enough, there were two posted nearby that had their attention on the crowd. 

“Thank you, everybody! Goodnight!” Rick shouted.

The band members took a bow, then made their way to the back. The security guards perked up, then began ushering people out of the venue.

_ This is it _ , Stan thought, adrenaline pumping through his veins.  _ While they’re distracted _ .

He hopped the metal fence discreetly, puffed his chest out, and walked with authority towards the door.

Life tip: If you act like you’re  _ supposed _ to be somewhere, people will usually be none the wiser. Stan learned this early on. The guards looked at him inquisitively, unsure if he was allowed to go backstage.

“Hey,” one of them began, “where’s your pass?”

Stan paused, patting his empty pockets.

“Geez, guys,” he started. “Looks like I’m comin’ up empty. I’m supposed to lug some equipment back there though, so could you let me in?”

The two of them looked him up and down once more, trying to gauge whether or not he was lying.

“Nah. Sorry pal, but we’re gonna need to see some I.D.”

Stan laughed halfheartedly. “See, the funny thing about that is-”

He darted behind the door, slamming it shut in their faces when they tried to follow him.

There were way more corners backstage than he had prepared for. The hallway was narrow, with doors lining each side like some kind of confusing nightmare. Stan didn’t enter any of them yet - he darted between staff and stagehands to turn as many of those confusing corners as he could. 

Right, left, left, right, straight. There was a door with a gold star plastered on it at eye-level. This must be it.

Stan took a deep breath and barged inside.

There they were, wiping sweat off of their torsos and drinking celebratory beers.

Rick looked at him from his position sprawled across the couch. “Hey, uh, you-you need somethin’?”

He stood there, mouth opening and closing like a fish, sweating like a maniac, lightheaded as a sonuvabitch, absolutely unprepared for that question.

And then he passed out.

-

The band members froze momentarily as Stan’s body hit the floor. The guards burst into the room, chests heaving, ready to catch the intruder.

“Nice- nice job, idiots,” Rick said, sitting up and stretching.

They went back and forth with their apologies. Rick waved his hands dismissively and they backed off, then leaned down to pick Stan up.

Rick spoke again, “Leave him. I’ll take care of it.”

“What do you-”

“I  _ said _ ,” Rick accentuated his pause with a swig from his drink. “I’ll take care of it.”

-

It was  _ far _ to bright. Stan rubbed his eyes against the glare and took a moment to relax against the mattress. He could hear people moving around, as well as several machines beeping. He sat up slowly to look around the room.

One white wall, three white curtains, white sheets on the white bed, a metal frame holding up an I.V. 

Hospital.

Stan took a deep sigh and laid back down once more. He stared at the cracks in the ceiling before he realized,

Oh, fuck.

_ Hospital _ .

The longer he existed in that room, the deeper the well of debt grew around him. As he was pulling off the wires connecting him to the heart rate monitor, he was trying to calculate exactly how much money he already owed and what fake name he was going to file it under. Stan held his breath as he slowly withdrew the I.V. needle from his arm, trying his best not to faint.

“Sir-- Sir! I’m going to have to ask you to stop,” a nurse suddenly called at him.

Stan was in panic mode. He couldn’t think of an excuse, so he blurted out the truth, “I can’t afford to be here right now. I don’t- I don’t have any money.”

The nurse blinked in surprise, then smiled gently. “Oh, honey, it’s already paid for. Your friend was very generous in covering all the expenses. Why don’t you lay back down?”

He paused, a confused expression on his face, then sat gingerly back on the mattress. The nurse approached him and began reattaching the devices he had ripped off moments ago. She pulled out the I.V. needle, much to Stan’s relief, and began explaining what had happened.

“You were brought here by a friend of yours. He told us your name is Stanley, is that right?”

He nodded, trying to figure out who could _possibly_ know his real name on this side of the state.

“Great. So, Stanley, apparently you fainted at a party. We did some blood work and it looks like you had a little bit to drink, but otherwise you’re perfectly healthy.”

Stan sat back and tried to remember what happened before he woke up. He was at the Flesh Curtains concert, he thought fondly, and definitely had his beer there. He remembered going hard in the mosh pit. Almost crying about a song. Making eye contact with Birdperson. Seeing the backstage entrance-

It all came flooding back to him. He let out a groan and rubbed his eyes, thinking about how  _ stupid _ he must’ve looked. 

The nurse perked up to ask him what was wrong, but was cut off by one of her coworkers.

“Hey! There you are,” he said, panting slightly as he peered into the curtained-off section that housed Stan. “The guy that took one of your patients in - he’s, uh, acting up again.”

It was her turn to groan, standing up from her chair beside Stan’s cot.

“Excuse me, Stanley, I have to go deal with your friend. In fact, I think I’ll let him know you’re doing better so you two can head out.”

She gave him a curt smile as she stepped out of the room, and Stan took a moment to appreciate her from behind before the other nurse closed the curtain.

After a few moments of Stan twiddling his thumbs, he heard a bit of commotion. 

“C-come on, not even- even a  _ little _ ? It’s- it’s- you guys prescribe it  _ all the time _ , how would an-nybody know somethin’s missing?”

Stan’s stomach twisted in a knot at the familiar voice. There was  _ no way _ . He was probably passed out in a jail cell, turned in to the cops by the guards from the show, dreaming all of this. He was distracted from his denial by the sound of shuffling feet growing closer and closer by the second, the curtains being whisked to the side and the sight of  _ him _ standing next to Stan’s incredibly frustrated-looking nurse.

Stan kept his mouth clamped shut, but his eyes were practically bulging out of his skull.

“Here,” the nurse started, gesturing towards Stanley. “You two talk for a moment while I handle some of my other patients.”

“S-sure thing, babe.”

Stan watched her eye twitch slightly before closing the curtain, leaving the two of them alone together.

Silence.

Stan didn’t trust himself to say anything, so he sat and stared and Rick, who was growing bored.

“Hey,” Rick said, breaking the tension. “So, uh, y-you ran backstage.”

Stan nodded.

“Right,” he continued. “You ran backstage, a-and passed out in- in our dressing room. Which, not gonna lie, was actually kind of funny.”

There was another pause filled with awkward silence before Rick decided to sit in the chair next to Stan’s mattress, swivelling it so that he was sitting with his legs spread and his arms resting on its back. 

“A-alright, time to cut the shit. When - when you were darting around backstage, you actually made a lot of the loading people drop their equipment.”

“Oh, fuck, I’m so sorry-”

Rick cut him off, “No, no, d-don’t start. I don’t need a fuckin’ apology, ‘cuz you’re gonna pay it back.”

Stan swallowed the lump in his throat. “I don’t have any money,” he whispered.

Rick nodded slowly, rubbing his mouth in a thoughtful manner. “Alright,” he said. “Then you’ll work it off.”

Before Stan could ask a question, Rick continued, “W-we always need an extra hand setting shit up. Can you l-lift fifty pounds?” Upon seeing Stan nod, Rick continued, “Cool. Great. So, you’ll f-follow the van around from show to show, a-and you’ll help lug our shit around.”

Stan licked the dry corner of his lips. “I can’t really spend that much on gas.”

Rick rustled in one of his back pockets, pulled out his wallet, and slid a plastic card between his fingers. “This is the band’s card. It’s- it’s basically, like, for business expenses and shit. If you need gas, you’re- you’re gonna call me from your car, and we’re gonna pull over. Got it?”

Stan rubbed his face, trying to hide his absolute disbelief from his idol. “I don’t think I have your phone number.” he joked.

Rick snorted. “Y-yeah, no shit. I put it in your phone while you were passed out. Also, you have a- a thousand fuckin’ fake IDs in your wallet, man. I grabbed a random one to file you under.”

He placed his hands back in his lap, smiling off to the side. “One hell of a coincidence you picked the only real one.”

“No shit?” Rick asked, a sideways grin on his face. “I guessed right?”

Stan nodded.

Rick extended his hand to shake. Stan grasped it firmly.

“Welcome to The Flesh Curtains, Stanley.”

-

The woman at the front desk wished them a good night as they sauntered out into the brisk air. The two of them were silent for a while as Rick led the way to his car - or, as it turned out, Stanley’s car.

“You took my keys?” Stan asked, a tiny bit peeved.

“Y-yep.” Rick pulled them out of his pocket and jingled them near Stan’s face. “There- there’s no way in hell you’re driving us back, by the way.”

Stan sighed and nodded, opening up his passenger door and immediately becoming flooded with embarrassment.

“Sorry about the, uh...” Stan trailed off.

“Nah man, don’t worry about it. Our hotel rooms tend to look like this after a few days.”

Stan smiled at the slight reassurance. Rick didn’t seem to care that he was living out of his car - in fact, it was probably why he knew Stan would be good to join him on the road. He didn’t have anywhere he needed to be. 

“Speaking of hotel rooms,” Rick continued, “you’ll be crashing with us. So, you- you don’t have to sleep in here anymore.”

Stan cleared his throat and thanked him. A few minutes of agonizingly awkward silence followed as Rick steered the car down onto the freeway.

“The, uh, the nurse was nice,” Stan said, trying to find something to talk about.

“Yeah,” Rick agreed, a smug look on his face. “I think- I think her name was Delilah or something. Fuckin’ love redheads, man.”

They both chuckled in agreement, then fell back into uncomfortable silence.

“Rick,” Stan said, some tension in his tone.

“Yeah?”

“I… snuck into your concert. I didn’t pay for a ticket.”

To his surprise, Rick  _ laughed _ . “That’s- that’s fuckin’ fine, man. I don’t care. Y-you’re acting like you’re in a- a- a confessional. Like I’m a goddamn priest.”

_ That could be hot- _ Stan started to think before cutting himself off. “I’m, uh, glad you feel that way. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d get in, let alone wind up  _ here _ .”

A sudden wave of emotion came over him, and he started rambling. Once he started, he couldn’t stop himself.

“- and it’s just, you guys are so  _ cool _ and I watch your interviews all the time, I really feel like your music speaks to me. I kind of idolize you, to be completely honest- and now you’re  _ driving my car _ ! God, what an insane day. You guys were great up there, by the way. It was a great show. The, uh, girl that flashed you? She was actually on my shoulders, so, I dunno, you’re welcome for the titties?”

Rick snorted back a laugh, pulling into a parking lot outside of a hotel. “Th-thanks for the tits. Is it all out of your system?”

“Is what out of my system?”

“All of,” Rick gestured vaguely, “ _ that _ . Your praise. You done?”

Stan looked away, embarrassed that he had said too much. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I think I’m done.”

“Good. Squanchy hates it and it makes BP clam up. Just act natural, alright?” Rick asked as he shut off the ignition. “Here’s your keys. Grab, uh, w-whatever laundry shit you have in here. We can- we can have someb-body wash it for you.”

“Are you…” Stan cleared his throat. “Thanks. I’ll try to keep it under control when I meet the rest of the guys.”

“Don’t- don’t mention it. Get your shit and- and whatever toiletries you have, ‘cuz I’m not sharing my toothbrush.”

Stan let out a halfhearted chuckle, then began rifling through his belongings. He pulled out a trash bag full of dirty clothes from the backseat and a ziploc baggie with a toothbrush & paste in it from the glove box. He emerged from the passenger side with his arms full of overnight supplies, trying to keep his heart rate at a reasonable level. Rick stood at the hood of the car, taking a long drag from a cigarette and staring up at the sky.

“Light pollution is- is a bitch, Stan.”

Stanley almost collapsed at the sound of Rick using his name so casually.

“Yeah?” he asked, trying to be nonchalant.

“Yeah. Like, Jupiter is  _ right there _ but we can- we can barely see it. Because of all these- these stupid buildings with their shitty light bulbs.”

Stan hefted his laundry bag over his shoulder, then joined Rick in leaning against his car’s hood. “You should cut the power grid.”

Rick laughed, rough and dry from the smoke in his throat. “Genius. Why didn’t I think of that? I shoulda- shoulda done it years ago.” He flicked his cigarette butt onto the pavement. “You all set?”

Stan nodded, adjusting his trash bag over his shoulder. 

Rick stamped the butt out on the sidewalk, then turned to lead the way. Stan followed with a nervous grin plastered across his face.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings for: drug and alcohol abuse, denial of feelings, and a whole lotta tension. some suggestive parts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO sorry this took me a million years to finish! i forgot all about it for a hot minute tbh. enjoy, you animals

Stan didn’t realize it until the hotel room door was flung open, but he had been holding his breath for the entire walk down the hallway. He exhaled at the sight of beer cans strewn about the floor and half-wrapped joints laying untouched on the coffee table, feeling some semblance of normalcy about the situation. He’d been in places that have looked like this before.

“Rick, there you are.” Birdperson stated plainly. “We were beginning to grow concerned.”

“Don’t- don’t worry about me, man.” Rick responded. He gestured to Stan, who was standing completely frozen in the entryway. “Stan, Birdperson. BP, Stan. Where’s Squanchy?”

Stan waved in disbelief as BP spoke, “I believe he’s squanching again.”

Rick nodded with a cheeky grin on his face. “Nasty bastard. Well, I can introduce him later. I’d hate to interrupt.” He turned to address Stan, “You can, you can set your shit in my room. C’mon, it’s back here.”

He led the way through the small living room into one of the two bedrooms. Stan gave BP another shy wave as he made his way past him. Birdperson nodded in response, much like how he had at the concert. Stan had to stop himself from screaming about it again. 

“Alright, here we are,” Rick said, gesturing around him, showing off his messy master bedroom. “Throw your clothes wherever. You can put your other shit in my bathroom.”

Stan mumbled a quick thanks and did as he was told. By the time he finished setting his toothbrush and paste in the bathroom, Rick was already knocking back beers on his bed.

“Hey, uh, I assume I’m taking the couch for tonight..?” Stan asked.

“Nah, Squ -  _ eeurgh  _ \- ‘Quanchy’s got the couch. This is- this is a queen, you can fuckin’ take that side. Just don’t- don’t- don’t be weird about it.”

Stan’s hands went clammy. “You sure?”

“What did I just say?”

He shrugged dismissively, then looked around the room for something to do. Rick, upon seeing his bored expression, patted the unoccupied side of the bed. 

Stan sat down delicately - or, rather, as delicately as he was capable of being - and tugged his boots off before laying back against some propped-up pillows. Rick reached down over his side of the bed and produced another beer can, handing it to him nonchalantly. Stan took it without saying anything, especially having figured out by now that Rick doesn’t enjoy being thanked. 

Having nothing in particular to talk about, Rick grabbed the remote off of his nightstand and turned on the television. After flipping through the channels for a minute or so, he settled on a David Attenborough documentary about primates, perfect to zone out to. 

“You want some, some weed?” Rick asked, not looking away from the screen. “There’s nothin’ like getting- getting high and just, watching some -  _ eeeurghfff _ \- fuckin’ monkeys.” 

Stan laughed loudly enough to startle Rick. After wiping a stray tear from his eye, he said, “Yeah, for sure. I’ve never heard anybody say that before. Can’t wait to see if it’s true.”

Rick grinned in response. “What, you don’t believe me?”

“Not until you prove it,” Stan said, finishing the remainder of his drink. “Hit me with another one of these while you’re at it.”

He caught himself being demanding and recalibrated at the sight of Rick’s astonished expression. “I mean-- If you don’t mind. I’m not trying to boss you around-”

“Fuck, no way, man, you’re finally getting  _ fun _ .”

Stan snorted back a chuckle in response, trying not to let the compliment get to his head. “Well, keep  _ these _ ,” he shook the empty beer can for emphasis, “coming, and we’ll see how much fun I can be.”

It was Rick’s turn to laugh, head thrown back with an ugly cackle. It gave Stan a weird feeling in his chest.

“You- you got it,” Rick said, standing and stretching his arms above his head. “Hey, wanna see -  _ heeuurgh _ \- see who can, who can smoke the most?”

Stan sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Only if you’re okay with losing.”

“ _ Oooooh _ ,” Rick jeered. “That’s some big talk from a guy that definitely can’t afford to buy his own drugs.”

Stan’s jaw dropped. He was offended for half a second before he burst into laughter again. “Ugh, fuck, I can’t even be mad at that because it’s  _ true _ .”

Rick laughed again, gently tossing him a new beer. “Let me grab one of the- one of the joints on the table. Be right back.”

Stan nodded, letting out a content sigh when Rick left the room. He could get used to this.

He stared blankly at the screen, the warmth of tipsiness seeping into his gut. He sipped his second drink pleasantly, smiling quietly to himself. Stan knew that at any moment, he could wake up in his car like he had so many times before, disappointed that none of it was real. For the time being, even if it was all in his head, he was going to enjoy it. 

Rick re-entering the room with two joints in one hand and a family-size bag of chips in the other, wearing only a baggy pair of pajama pants, almost proved to Stan that it was, in fact, a vivid dream. 

“Dude,” he mumbled, “Is this real life?”

“Don’t fuckin’-” Rick cut himself off. “We’re not even stoned yet. Don’t- don’t start with this shit.” He threw the bag of chips at Stan, who eagerly ripped it open.

“But, yeah,” he continued. “I’m pretty sure this is real life.”

Rick plopped himself down on his side of the bed, digging a lighter out from between the sheets. Stan, with a handful of chips shoved in his mouth, gave him an inquisitive look.

“I- I lose track of these things like you wouldn’t believe. There’s al -  _ aaeeurgh _ \- always one lying around somewhere.”

Stan nodded understandably. “I get that,” he said around his food. “I feel like I’m always losing shit.”

Rick popped one of the joints between his lips and lit it up, taking a long drag. He held it in, giving Stan a challenging glare, and let the smoke out after several seconds. Rick offered it to Stan with a smug look on his face.

“Oh, we’re sharing?” Stan asked.

Rick blinked in surprise, then looked down at the second joint on the mattress. “What, you a germ- germaphobe? Think you’re too good to swap spit with  _ this _ ?” He gestured to himself jokingly. 

_ Absolutely fucking not _ , Stan caught himself thinking. Instead he said, “No, no- it’s just that you brought two. I figured one was for me. Christ, give me that.”

He pulled the joint from between Ricks fingers, exhaling before inhaling the smoke for as long as he could bear. He held it in until tears stung his eyes, until the burning in his throat turned painful, then exhaled directly into Rick’s face.

“Showoff.” Rick murmured before chugging the remainder of Stan’s second drink.

They went back and forth until it was all reduced to ash, and then they switched to the second one, taking hits between full cans of beer.

“I can- I can- I can - _eeeuughrrgh_ \- I can still hit it.” Rick insisted, eyes red and glazed over.

“You’re gonna -  _ hic _ \- hurt yourself, sssstupid.” Stan slurred, rubbing his face. “It’s a fuckin- it’s- there’s nothing left to hit.”

“Let me- let- let- let me eat the roach.”

Stan punched him lightly on the shoulder, snubbing the unlit spliff out on his bedside table. Rick groaned and laid his head back against the mattress.

“Oh, shit, I forgot about the, about the monkeys.”

Stan gasped and whipped around towards the television. Sure enough, two apes were going at it, trying to make a baby.

“What a fuckin’ weird part to -  _ hic _ \- to chime in on,” Stan mused.

Rick snort-laughed, which made Stan giggle, which made Rick laugh, which made Stan laugh some more, which led to Rick snorting again - it went on in a circle for  _ far _ too long.

They sat in silence after that, eating chips and staring at gorillas.

“Fuck, I think you might’ve been right.” Stan said, in a nearly comatose state.

“Huh?”

“This- this is fuckin’  _ amazing _ . I didn’t think this would be as fun as it is. And I’m -  _ hic _ \- learning!”

Rick cackled with his head thrown back again. Stan stared at his adam’s apple, at his prominent collarbone, at the way his shoulders bounced. Rick resubmerged himself in the documentary, unaware that he was being ogled. Stan continued to stare, to examine him in a way that could prove he was real. He went from Rick’s shoulders to his scrawny biceps, lingering on his veiny forearms before staring at his hands. 

They were long and slender and scratched up, just like the rest of him. His knuckles bulged at the skin, cuts on them presumably from hitting shit that frustrated him. His fingernails were chewed down to stubs, the skin of his fingertips surely calloused from all those hours spent playing the guitar.

_ They’d look good wrapped around my _ -

Stan cut that thought short and shook his head vigorously.

“W-what the hell was that about?” Rick asked, looking over at him lazily.

Stan sighed with his eyes squeezed tightly shut. “Do you ever…” he trailed off for a second, trying to choose his words as carefully as possible. “Do you ever have, I dunno, thoughts that just… Come out of nowhere?”

“It’s called having a brain, stupid.”

Stan laughed. “That’s not- okay, more- more specif -  _ hic _ \- ically. Just, stuff you absolutely shouldn’t be thinking about. Stuff that’s fucked up.”

“Again,” Rick punctuated, “It’s- it’s called having a -  _ beeuuurgh _ \- a brain.”

“You sure?” he asked. “It’s just, sometimes the thoughts are really upsetting. Totally out of left field. Weird shit.”

He stared at Stan with dead eyes. “Don’t- don’t fuckin’ make me say it again. I know “three times a charm” is a thing or wha-aatever, but you gotta know better than that by now.”

Stan stifled a laugh under his breath. “Alright. Fine. If you say so.”

A few more moments of the monkey documentary passed.

“What was it?” Rick asked.

“Huh?”

“The thought you had. Wha -  _ aauueerrgh _ \- at was it?”

“Uh,” Stan mumbled, racking his brain. “I… Don’t remember. I think we maybe did too much.”

“ _ Ha _ !” Rick laughed, a fist of victory pumped into the air. “That means  _ I _ win. In your f -  _ eeuueuuagh _ \- in your face!”

Stan laugh-groaned as he rolled in the bed, laying face down on the mattress. “I guess. I also haven’t eaten anything except those chips all day today, to be fair.”

“Holy shit,  _ that’s _ why you passed out! You seriously went into one of -  _ eeeoorrgghh _ \- one of  _ our _ mosh pits without eating?! It’s a miracle that you’re not fuckin’ dead.”

Stan mumbled something into the pillow. Rather than pry, Rick gave him a charitable pat on the back.

“The room service here has some of the- some of the  _ best _ hangover food.”

“Good to know,” Stan murmured from the side of his mouth. 

Rick could tell Stan was shutting down for the night, so he muted the documentary and got up to turn off the lights. Stan stared at the far wall, trying to keep his vision from blurring in and out, praying to  _ something _ that he wouldn’t throw up.

Rick came back from the bathroom with a small trash can in his hands, then set it next to Stan’s side of the bed. He patted Stan’s back and repositioned him in a way that, if he vomited in the middle of the night, the majority of it would land in the bin. Stan thanked him lazily as his eyes began to close.

“N-no problem, man.” Rick responded as he slid into the other side of the bed. “Try not to hurl.”

-

Stan actually managed to keep the contents of his stomach  _ in _ his stomach for the entire night. As the sun crept up over the horizon and through their bedroom window, Stan cracked one eye open. His head was hammering something fierce. He let out a weak groan and rubbed his face with one of his hands, staring at the ceiling before realizing that, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he fell asleep in a  _ bedroom _ .

The warm body tucked under his arm grumbled before snoring loudly. Stan squinted and looked down to see Rick with his arms wrapped around his torso like a koala to the trunk of a eucalyptus tree. 

Stan’s stomach jumped up into his throat at the sight of Rick’s face pressed comfortably against his shoulder. He was drooling on Stan’s arm, his stubble agitating against his skin, but Stan could only stare in awe.  _ Rick Sanchez _ had fallen asleep on him. Stan’s heart pounded in his chest as he tried to figure out how to get himself out of bed and into the bathroom without waking the drooling mess wedged against him. 

He sucked a deep breath in, holding it as he attempted to slide Rick off of his arm - but Rick’s subconscious seemed to have other plans, his still-sleeping body mumbling something and wrapping a leg around Stan’s waist.

A leg that  _ absolutely _ brushed against Stan’s half-hard morning wood in a way that wasn’t unpleasant. Stan exhaled with a harsh wheeze, insisting to himself that his boner was purely coincidental, that Rick adding a little bit of pressure onto his dick was an accident that shouldn’t be taken seriously.

But cheap old-school porn fantasies were already playing in his mind. He hated every second of it. He was grossed out by himself, and needed to take a shower to wash the shame off. 

He gently wiggled himself out of Rick’s grasp, standing up and adjusting himself in his jeans. Rick slumped against the mattress. Stan dug in his bag of clothes for a relatively fresh pair of underwear, then made his way into the bathroom. 

His shower didn’t cure his hangover, but it certainly made him feel less greasy. Stan looked at himself in the mirror with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist and sized himself up. 

An unfamiliar surge of confidence pounded away in his chest. Now that he was  _ clean _ for the first time in god knows how long, he felt significantly more comfortable with himself.

He pulled on his new underwear and took his belongings out of the bathroom with him. Rick was sitting up on the bed, shovelling strips of bacon in his mouth with reckless abandon, washing it down with black coffee.

“Havin’ fun?” Stan asked.

“Hrmmff,” Rick said before swallowing. “Yeah. Want some? You were in the shower so fuckin’ long I thought you were gonna starve.”

Stan shrugged dismissively, rubbing his still-wet hair with his towel. “Sorry, wasn’t paying attention. And I don’t, uh, eat bacon.”

Rick snorted. “What, you jewish or something?”

Stan tossed his dirty clothes with the rest. “I mean, yeah, actually.”

“Oh. That’s… that’s cool.”

Stan plopped himself down on his side of the bed. “What, am I not allowed to travel with you guys now or somethin’?”

Rick laughed around his bacon, a tiny bit embarrassed. “No, no, you’re- you’re all good.”

“Great. Now who do I call to order my own food?”

After half an hour of the largest meal Stan had eaten since he was seventeen, he was in a nearly comatose state against the mattress. Rick was right there next to him, staring at the ceiling with bleary eyes.

“I can call room service to take care of your laundry.”

“That would be great, man.” Stan mumbled.

Rick groaned as he sat upright. He leaned over to the telephone on the nightstand, called for some hotel staff to take care of Stan’s clothes, then stood up to crack his back.

“I’m gonna jump in the shower now.” Stan grunted in acknowledgement. Rick continued, “Did- did you clean up after jerking off in there? Or am i gonna have to give it a spray-down?”

Stan made an involuntary choking noise. “Wh- it’s-  _ what _ ?”

He looked back at Stan with dead, sarcastic eyes. “I  _ said _ ,” he enunciated slowly, “did you clean up after jerking off.”

Stan was still taken aback. “I mean… Yeah. I did.”

“ _ Ha! _ ”

Stan scoffed. “Okay, fuck you. I’ll have  _ you _ know that you were grinding your ass against me all night. How’s  _ that _ for embarrassing, huh?”

Rick snorted, entering the bathroom with a turn in his heel. “Whatever. Wasn’t conscious, didn’t count.”

Stan threw a pillow at the back of his head as he dipped into the bathroom. He laid back against the mattress, content to relax until he was finished digesting his meal. Room service came and went, with Stan feeling incredibly awkward about being in just his underwear while some poor latina woman averted her eyes, gathering the garbage bag full of his clothes in silence. 

Rick exited the bathroom with his towel around his waist. Stan, out of politeness and embarrassment, averted his eyes.

“We’re gonna hit the road in a few hours,” Rick said, gathering his clothes. “Might need a hand carrying our shit. But it- it shouldn’t be too much today, we got most of it taken care of after last night’s show.”

Stan grunted in acknowledgement. He peeked out of the corner of his eye as Rick tugged a t-shirt on over his bare chest, the towel on his waist barely hanging onto his hipbones. He inhaled through his nose, deciding to stare at the ceiling until Rick was fully clothed. 

“We’ve got a few concerts in Detroit two days from now, and I have to do a stupid fuckin’ interview for some show or another while we’re there. So, that’s where we’re headed.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to take a plane?” Stan asked.

Rick shrugged, flopping down on his side of the bed. “The band and I like the road. We get lots of writing done when we’re crammed in the tour bus together.”

Stan smiled lopsidedly. “Forreal? I’ve always kinda wondered how you came up with your lyrics.”

Rick snorted. “BP does most of the writing. He’s like, real poetic and shit. When we wanna write a song about sex or drugs or whatever, Squanch and I take over.”

“Oh,” Stan said lamely. “Weird. I figured you were the one that wrote all of the lyrics.”

“Nah,” he responded, stretching his arms over his head. “Group effort. Sometimes we gotta hire outside writers, too, if we’re having a hard time finishing a piece.”

Stan hummed and nodded in response. An air of awkward silence settled over the room as the two of them ran out of things to say.

Thankfully, there was a knock against the wooden doorframe.

“Yeah?” Rick shouted.

Squanchy’s face, barely visible from where Stan was sitting on the bed, appeared as he opened the door. 

“Some lady has clean clothes for ya,” he said. Squanchy gave Stan a once-over before continuing, “You let the squanch stay the night?”

Rick snorted as he sat up. “This is Stanley. He’s not a fucking call boy, contrary to popular belief.” 

Stan’s face twisted in amusement and confusion. “ _ Whose _ popular belief?”

Rick pointed at Squanchy, who tilted his head back and laughed. Stan grinned and looked to the side, trying not to show how embarrassed he was.

“Have- have her bring the clothes in,” Rick said as he flopped back onto the bed. 

Squanchy did as he was told, and the same woman from earlier kept her eyes glued to the floor as she set a basket of Stan’s clothes in the bedroom.

“Espereme, le voy a dar propina,” Rick said suddenly, sitting up again and reaching for his wallet. 

Stan blinked in surprise. He watched as Rick pulled out a few green leaflets and handed them to the lady, unable to see exactly how much mone he was giving her.

“Señor, muchas gracias, pero--”

Rick waved his hand dismissively, turning his back on her. “No es problema.”

She pocketed the cash and thanked him again before darting out of their room. Stan stood to dress himself - finally - and tried his best to sound as casual as possible.

“So, since when do you speak Spanish?” he asked.

Rick scoffed. “That was Portugese, racist.”

Stan stopped digging for a t-shirt, looking up at Rick with giant, deeply ashamed eyes. “Oh- fuck, my bad, I’m sorry-”

“Just kidding,” Rick said, an amused smile toying at the corners of his lips. “You were right the first time.”

Stan threw a clean pair of jeans straight into Rick’s smug face. “Dick,” he said, tugging a shirt on. “Had me thinking I was an asshole for a second.”

Rick cackled, his shoulders bouncing as he did so, and threw the jeans back into Stan’s hands. The exchange gave him butterflies in his stomach, which he promptly ignored as he tugged his pants on. 

As he was adjusting his belt through the loops of his jeans, he noticed that Rick was scrutinizing him. Stan darted his eyebrows upwards to ask him what is deal was, only for Rick to start digging through one of his suitcases.

“Here,” Rick said, waving something leather and studded in the air successfully. “If you’re gonna be touring with us, might as well look the part.”

He approached Stan casually, gesturing for his hands. Stan held them out limply, watching in fascination as Rick fastened two identical black bracelets to his wrists. 

“They look a little, uh, bondage-y,” Stan said as Rick pulled away.

“Yeah,” was all Rick said in response.

Stan’s face turned beet red as he fidgeted with the cuffs.

“Well-” Rick continued in attempt to smooth the interaction over, “Well, that’s- that’s the  _ look _ , y’know. Like how I wear that harness one on stage sometimes. It’s more for show than anything else.”

They both chuckled awkwardly, Stan nodding in agreement.

“Yeah, I know the one.”

An even heavier weight of awkwardness settled over them, Stan having realized that by admitting he knew the specific harness, he  _ also _ admitted to having paying attention to what Rick wore, as well as when and where he had it on. Rick put it together. Stan saw Rick put it together. Rick saw Stan see Rick put it together.

“I’m not gay,” Stan blurted out. 

Rick laughed so hard tears ran down his face. 

“I didn’t- I didn’t fuckin’-” he couldn’t even finish his sentence, needing to sit back down on the bed to catch his breath before he was able to speak again. “I didn’t say that you were, holy shit.”

Stan was laughing too, his face buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking. “Shut the fuck up,” he said. “This is all still weird to me.”

Rick took a few steadying breaths, trying to compose himself before speaking again. “It’s fine. I’m never letting you live that down, but it’s fine.” He looked up at Stan with a mischievous glint in his eye. “You’re definitely in denial, but hey, whatever works for you.”

“It’s not-”

“No, no, I get it.” Rick said, standing as he began packing the remainder of his things. “I’m the sexual awakening for a lot of formerly-straight guys, don’t worry. I read some of the fan letters.”

Stan huffed in a deep breath, deciding to gather his belongings instead of argue.

Rick was still going. “I mean, shit, you should see some of the meet and greets we have. There’s always some dude that looks like he’s gonna fight me until he pulls me to the side to confess his undying love. I get more guys than chicks sometimes, it’s absurd.”

Stan was in the bathroom, zipping up his toothbrush and paste in a baggie, barely listening to Rick anymore.

“- I mean, shit, I’m not too picky. Don’t take all of them home, but the ones I do? They put out like nothing you’ve ever seen.”

He heard that one. He  _ definitely _ heard that one. 

“You fuck dudes for real? I thought it was tabloid gossip.” Stan asked as he put the baggie in his pocket.

Rick looked up defensively, I sneer twitching at the corners of his mouth. “What, is that a problem for you?”

Stan’s eyes widened. “Uh, I mean, no. Not at all. To each their own.”

The malice behind Rick’s eyes faded away within a few seconds. They continued to gather their things in silence, Rick finally deciding to shut his mouth. Stan was glad. If he’d kept going, Stan would probably have a heart attack. 

As Stan slung the trash bag full of (now clean) clothes over his shoulder, he also took initiative in picking up two of Rick’s suitcases. Rick was confused for a second, then remembered that he’d hired Stan to carry the band’s stuff. He watched as Stan exited their shared room, grunting as he shouldered the door open. Once he was out of earshot, Rick let out a deep breath. 

“Son of a bitch,” he mumbled.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i have a spotify playlist for what i want Flesh Curtains to sound like in this au. it's a lot of big names from the 90s grunge scene, which i am very much into in case you couldn't tell. the song i used as inspiration for Rick's nightmare-induced writing haze is Ticks & Leeches by Tool, which you can find on the playlist!
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/12127646544/playlist/5yAgzmedlfYXrHC5Rl4LI5?si=3hHOfdU1Qcij4e9Sl1sS9Q

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for: drinking, piercings, weed - happy 4/20!, f slur (rhymes with maggot), nightmares, moodiness, crybaby bitchboy. i didn't intend to write Rick with an eating disorder, but my lovely beta reader pointed out that it might look that way. i just think he doesn't eat when he's stressed out. which.. could be disordered eating. idk. warning for that, then? it's not explicit

Stan helped the Flesh Curtains load their belongings into their tour bus. The leather cuffs on his hands didn’t interfere, but they made his wrists a little sweaty, forcing him to acknowledge that they were present. 

Before he carried the last bag out of their hotel room, he took a look at himself in the mirror. Rick was right when he said the accessories would help him fit in with the band - in just a t-shirt and jeans, he didn’t look like anyone in particular. But with the bracelets, he looked somewhat fashionable, and very much like he belonged to the punk scene. The sense of belonging made his chest swell up with pride. 

“You’re good following us?” Rick asked as Stan exited the hotel, one final duffel bag in his hands. 

“Yep,” he grunted. He passed the bag to the driver, who stored it in the bus’s cargo hold.

From inside, Stan heard Squanchy shout at Rick to hurry up, seemingly eager to get a move on.

Rick sighed and turned to face Stan. “We’re stopping to get lunch in a few hours. I’ll see you then.”

They parted ways, Stan starting up the engine to his car and finding his gas tank full. He smiled and shook his head. He watched the bus as it eased out of its parking spot, then out of the lot altogether. Stan sucked in a deep breath, put his car in drive, and followed.

-

It was a long trip to their lunch break. Stan liked driving, liked the way his car sounded when it was well-oiled and had a full tank of gas, but the way Birdperson’s head appeared at random intervals in the bus’s rear window filled him with anxiety. Even more so when Squanchy was the one that looked at him, always with a manic grin on his face. He felt like they were talking about him, and he could only assume the worst.

Stan’s phone buzzed in his pocket a few times before he picked it up.

“Hello?” he asked.

“We’re stopping for lunch soon,” Rick said.

“Got it,” Stan responded. “See you.”

“Okay-” Rick said, cut short by him hanging up. Stan followed the bus as it exited the freeway, entering an area riddled with gas stations and fast food restaurants.

-

“So,” Birdperson said after swallowing a bite of his salad. “It is my understanding that you are now working as a stagehand?”

Stan looked up from the way Rick was trying to create a massive tower of condiments stacked on top of each other. “Uh, yeah. To pay off the hospital bills you guys covered for me.”

Rick’s tower fell over, causing him to swear under his breath. Squanchy snickered and plucked one of the barbecue packets from the pile, tearing it open to dip his chicken nuggets into. 

Stan took a bite of his burger as he watched the whole scenario unfold.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat, Rick?” Birdperson asked.

Rick shot him a glare, then focused back on his creation. “For the fifth fucking time, yeah, I’m sure. I had a big breakfast.”

“I will save you some french fries for when you are hungry later,” BP responded.

“Thanks,” Rick scoffed, adding a small pile of ketchup packets to his precarious balancing act. Stan stared at the way he used the very tips of his painted nails to work the pieces of plastic onto each other, holding them like it was a game of reverse-Operation, where he had to slowly put things  _ into _ miniscule spaces rather than pull them out.

“I thought you were one of Rick’s hookers at first,” Squanchy said around his food. “Sorry about the mix up.”

Rick’s tower fell over again.

“Uh, thank you?” Stan said, unsure of how to take the reminder. He decided to make a joke out of it. “Can’t imagine many hookers are shaped like this, but I appreciate the compliment.”

“You would be surprised,” Birdperson said, monotone as can be. “There are many different shapes and sizes of sex worker that Rick will take to our hotels. For example-”

Rick threw one of the plastic packages at BP, cutting him short. Stan looked over to find him shooting Birdperson  _ the _ meanest glare Stan had ever seen. An awkward hush fell over the table while Birdperson cleared his throat and took another bite of his meal.

Eventually the conversation picked up again, Squanchy taking the lead with one of his ridiculous stories. Stan kept stealing glances at Rick as he switched from building a vertical tower to a horizontal pattern out of the packets, seemingly content with his new task.

Rick looked up with a huff, observing everyones’ nearly-complete meals.

“Are we- are we done yet? Because this place is greasy and I can feel my cholesterol going up with every bite that  _ you _ two take,” Rick said pointedly at Stan and Squanchy. 

Stan looked at him with concern, but Squanchy clammed up and began cleaning his wrappers.

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” Stan asked.

BP and Squanchy looked at each other with mild panic in their eyes.

Rick turned to face Stan fully. “Oh, I’m  _ sorry _ , did you want to stuff your face for a few more hours, princess? Some of us have places to be, you know. People to see. Important shit to be working on.”

They stared at each other for a few minutes, Stan chewing thoughtfully as Rick seethed with irritation. 

Once he had his next move planned, Stan swallowed his mouthful of food. “Alright, then,” he said plainly. “Let’s get going.”

Rick blinked in surprise, then put his face of irritation back on. “Yeah, that’s what- that’s what I said.”

The four of them stood to gather their messes. Cleaning up sauce-stained wrappers only took a minute, so it felt like no time at all before they were back in the parking lot.

As Stan was starting his car again, there was a rapping of knuckles against the passenger side’s window. 

Before he could respond, Rick opened the door and settled inside. He didn’t look at Stan, instead choosing to focus on his cuticles, pushing them back without a care.

Stan said nothing. He fastened his seatbelt over himself and set his eyes on the road in front of him, still following directly behind the tour bus.

-

It didn’t take long for Rick to start talking again. Once they hit the freeway, all he did was complain about how much shit he had to do before the interview.

“And they fucking- they fucking  _ wax _ me, man. Right down the middle of my brows. That’s- I mean, talk about the “look”, right? They want me to be dirty, but not  _ too _ dirty, god forbid I grow hair in a place they don’t think is attractive. And the fucking  _ questions _ these interviewers ask, they’re- they’re- they’re  _ asinine _ , Stanley, some of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard.”

Stan was quiet, only giving a hum or the occasional clarification question to keep Rick ranting. His sour attitude back in the restaurant was making more and more sense by the second.

“Like, uh, “What was your inspiration for--” and then they give me the dumbest fucking song we’ve written, or something that- that BP wrote and I had nothing to do with, and they expect some deep philosophical answer every time.  _ Every time _ , Stanley! Not everything is, is some work of genius! Sometimes we write songs about sucking dick, but give them flowery language to confuse those dumbass interviewers, and- and- and it  _ works _ !”

Now Stan was laughing, remembering the interviews he’d seen where Rick looked positively dead inside, fed up with the questions the reporter had been asking him.

“And when they want to know about your sex life, it’s like, is  _ nothing _ private to you vultures? The paparazzi will snap a picture of me talking to some stranger - doesn’t matter who! - and they’ll mix that shit like a fucking DJ. It’s beyond me.” 

Stan’s laughter faded into a chuckle. “Do you think they’ll, uh-”

“Oh, absolutely,” Rick interrupted. “Whatever you’re about to suggest, they’ll do it. No moral standards. Whatever- whatever gets them the views or sells their fucking magazines.”

He swallowed a lump in his throat. “I mean, people don’t believe that shit though, right?”

Rick tossed his hands into the air out of frustration. “You’d think so! By now, you’d really think so! But  _ nooo _ , I still get interviewers that ask me about the latest tabloid drama that I don’t even know exists. And they spring that shit on me, man, there’s no heads up that some- some chick accused me of knocking her up, or I’ve sucked off Marilyn Manson, or some other complete bullshit.”

“Have you?” Stan asked, grinning playfully.

Rick scoffed. “I fucking  _ wish _ . We did tour together a few years ago. I should see if he wants to again. Maybe this time I’ll get the chance.”

The mental image made Stan’s ears turn pink. Thankfully, Rick didn’t seem to notice, still wrapped up in his ravings. 

-

They arrived at their new hotel early in the evening. Stan unloaded their things just like how he loaded them, with the sweat under his cuffs forcing him to think about them again. The band members carried a few duffel bags up to their room, which, just like last time, only had two beds.

“You can bunk with me again,” Rick said as he kicked off his shoes. “Once you’re done getting the rest of our shit, that is.”

Stan blew a strand of hair out of his face to give Rick a teasing scowl. Rick cackled in response, drunk with power.

“You’re such a good pack mule!” he shouted as Stan began his final trip downstairs to get the last of their things. He knew the praise was sarcastic, but it still made him weak in the knees.

-

They were both in their pajamas again, room service having delivered them a meal fit for a king, watching garbage reality television stoned out of their minds. 

“Not to- not to sound like a douchebag,” Rick started.

“You usually do, but go ahead.”

Rick smacked Stan upside the head with a pillow. “Fuck you. But some- sometimes I really wish I was stupid.”

Stan looked at him with glazed-over eyes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Look at how happy these hoes are!” he said as he gestured to the screen.

Stan gave a halfhearted laugh. “It’s not that great. You’re not missing out.”

“What?” Rick asked, making a noise of disbelief. “You think you’re stupid?”

Sitting up slightly, Stan gave him a decided look. “The only reason I’m here is because I tried to force my way backstage and passed out  _ immediately _ .”

Rick  _ howled _ , head thrown back, adams apple bobbing. “Fuck, that’s right, huh? Okay, maybe you are a little bit stupid. M-m-maybe more than a little bit.”

Stan ignored the insult, mostly because it fell on deaf ears. He was too busy watching Rick’s elated expression as he spoke.

For a moment, they just stared at each other. If Stan wasn’t high, he might’ve noticed how Rick’s gaze darted from his eyes to his lips every few seconds. 

But he was, so he didn’t.

Instead of make a move, he groaned and collapsed back onto the mattress. “I think I’m gonna hit the sack.”

Rick grunted in response, standing to turn their lights off. Stan was already dozing off by the time Rick hit the switch.

-

Just like yesterday, Stan woke up with Rick practically glued to his side. It was slightly less awkward this time since he’d already experienced it, but having Rick’s bony limbs wrapped around him was still a strange sensation. 

This time, rather than wiggle out from under him, Stan decided to stay put for a little while. There wasn’t any harm in it, he decided, and since he enjoyed the feeling of Rick’s steady rise and fall of breath against his chest - not gay - he let Rick rest against him. 

His only complaint was the morning wood they were both sporting.  _ That _ was kind of gay. Stan was controlling his breathing the best that he could, hoping he could will it to go soft without disturbing the pile of limbs on top of him. 

Rick let out a little sound, one of his hands tugging at Stan’s undershirt. He stole a glance at Rick’s face - what he could see of it from his angle, anyways - to find it screwed up in discontent. Rick was grinding his teeth, furrowing his brows, sweating slightly. 

Another noise escaped his throat, sounding a little bit like a hoarse cry this time, and Stan could’ve sworn he saw tears pricking the corners of Rick’s eyes.

“Hey,” Stan said quietly, setting a hand on Rick’s shoulder. “Hey man, wake up.”

His bloodshot eyes snapped open. Stan was right, there were some tears forming. Rick stared at him like a wild dog, his hands shaking as they gripped Stan’s shirt.

“You okay?” Stan asked after a long moment of silence.

Rick inhaled deeply, held the breath, ducked his head against Stan’s chest, and let it out. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I-I-I’m alright.”

Rick peeled himself off of Stan awkwardly, mumbling to himself. His fingers were fidgety, like he was playing an invisible piano, as he walked around the room looking for something. 

A notepad and a pen. He picked them up as soon as his eyes landed on them, hastily scribbling things down. Stan watched carefully. He kept his distance in hopes that Rick would flush it all out of his system and get back to normal shortly afterwards.

When minute five of Rick scribbling rolled around, Stan decided it was taking too long. He stood, popped his back, and let Rick know that he was going to take a shower.

Rick didn’t respond. He was in the zone.

Stan collected a batch of clean clothes and slunk into the bathroom.

-

With his hair still wet, Stan exited quietly. He didn’t see Rick in the same spot as he was before the shower; this time, he was laying back on the mattress with an arm over his eyes. His chest was rising and falling at rapid intervals. Upon closer inspection, Stan noticed wet streaks of tears trailing down the sides of his face.

Stan wasn’t good at this kind of stuff. He wasn’t good at a lot of stuff, to be fair, but  _ especially _ this kind of stuff. Rather than confront the obvious emotional distress Rick was feeling, he cleared his throat.

“The bathroom is open.”

Rick sucked in a deep breath and rubbed his eyes. Stan stared at the floor as Rick trudged past him, closing the door in his wake without a word.

Stan made his way towards the notepad Rick had been scribbling on earlier. 

He could barely parse out a few words. “Leech” and “parasite” were reoccuring, though, as well as “rot”, “decay”, and “blowjob”. 

With his eyebrows high on his head, Stan set the notepad back down where he found it. 

Stan went into the hotel room’s kitchenette to find the other band members talking quietly to each other, a pot of coffee between them.

“Can I get some of that?” Stan asked.

Birdperson responded, “Of course, Stanley.”

The three of them worked on their beverages quietly, the sound of water running through the pipes serving as white noise. 

“Can I squanch you a question, Stan?” Squanchy asked.

“Uh, sure.”

“ _ Are _ you two fucking?”

A little bit of hot coffee came out of Stan’s nose. As his coughing fit faded, he gave Squanchy a questioning look.

“Uh, no? We aren’t. Why are you so hell-bent on that?”

“Well,” Birdperson said, “we have not seen Rick talk about someone the way he talks about you in a very long time.”

Stan’s face was turning pink. He hoped he could blame it on the coffee that came out of the wrong hole.

Birdperson continued, “He also has not laughed as hard as he has in these few days for many years. We think that it has something to do with you.”

Stan waved his hand dismissively, trying to play it off. “Maybe he’s just in a good mood lately. Besides, even if it  _ is _ because of me, why would we have to be dating? You guys get along fine and  _ you’re _ not together.”

“We didn’t say dating,” Squanchy said. “We said squanching.”

“Rick has a hard time meeting people outside of sex,” Birdperson explained. “The fame has not helped. I feared that he would not be able to befriend someone that he was not sleeping with, but I am glad to be proven wrong.”

The three of them sat quietly, pondering.

The water travelling through the pipes shut off, signaling that Rick was finished with his shower. Just as Stan was about to go check on him, someone knocked at the door.

Birdperson stood without a word to let them in.

“Thanks, BP,” a round man said as he entered with a small group of people. “Now, where’s my Rick? I’ve got lots of things to talk about with him!”

“He just finished his shower,” Stan said from the kitchen.

The man sized Stan up, giving him a quick once-over.

“Rick has hired Stanley as a stagehand,” Birdperson explained briefly. “Stanley, this is our manager, Ergman Bratsman.”

-

Stan stood in the corner of the room with his arms folded across his chest as the makeup artist pressed a waxing strip over the center of Rick’s eyebrow. He grimaced as she yanked it off with one quick movement, causing Rick to hiss in a breath.

“You’re fine, Sanchez,” the band manager explained. “All that metal in your ears but a little wax is what hurts ya? Come on, kid, get it together.”

Rick was grinding his teeth again. Stan could practically hear it from across the room. 

“Listen, Rick, I need you to understand that this interview is important,” Bratsman continued. “Which means you can’t mouth off to her, alright? If anything, I need you to be a little flirty. Conservatives are already pissy that you’re a faggot-”

He couldn’t finish the sentence before Stan pounced. He didn’t punch him, that would get him forcibly removed from the band, but he lifted the motherfucker up by the lapels of his suit jacket.

Stan stared at him with death in his eyes. “Don’t call him that,” he said simply, between gritted teeth. 

He watched as the manager audibly swallowed. Time stood still for a moment before Stan eventually set him down.

A bony finger prodded at Stan’s shoulder. When he turned around, Rick slapped him clean across the face. 

Confusion rippled through him in time with the shock waves. He shook his head rapidly, a hand rushing to sooth the red handprint forming on his cheek.

“ _ What _ the  _ fuck _ ?!” Rick asked him, breathing heavily.

“Outside, boys, outside!” the makeup artist shouted, opening the front door for them.

Meagerly, they made their way out, Rick following Stan with his fists clenched.

The door closed behind them, leaving them in the hallway between rooms. Stan stared, still surprised, as Rick began to lay into him.

“I don’t need you to fucking- to fucking- you don’t know what this business is  _ like _ and you think you can come in here and just  _ talk  _ to our manager like that?! That’s  _ normal _ , you fucking idiot! I don’t need you to White Knight me, you moron, you- you- you-”

Tears of anger surmounted the barrier he was trying to put up. “You think you can just shove yourself into my life and try to  _ help _ me?! I don’t need it, alright! Fuck you, Stan! Fuck you and your stupid car, and your medical bills, and-”

This time, Stan slapped Rick clean across the face.

They stared at each other in stunned silence. A door that was a short distance from them opened, and a middle-aged man poked his head out.

“You fellas alright?” he asked.

“Yeah,” they both croaked.

“Sorry,” Stan mumbled.

The man retracted back into his room. They stood there, staring at each other, before Rick burst into delirious giggles.

Stan was confused. Rick had his face buried in his hands, shoulders shaking, half-sobbing and half-laughing.

_ Talk to him _ , Stan thought, watching as Rick had a mental breakdown in front of him.

But he wasn’t good at talking. He never had been, more accustomed to using his fists than his words, so rather than ask him what was wrong, he wrapped his arms around Rick’s shaking frame, enclosing him in a tight hug.

After a few long minutes, Rick’s shaking slowed to a stop. His breathing became more regular as he gradually calmed down, sinking into Stan’s arms like he was weightless.

“You okay?” Stan asked.

“Mmrmph,” Rick mumbled against Stan’s chest. He pulled away, revealing the wet spot that had formed over the few minutes of quiet crying. “Yeah. Sorry about, uh, that.”

Stan opened his arms, letting Rick take a few steps back. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Stan said. “I should probably apologize to your manager.”

Rick rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, a quiet smile touching the corners of his mouth. “Nah,” he said. “You don’t have to. Just don’t pull that shit again.”

They both took a few steadying breaths before reentering their room. Stan locked eyes with Bratsman, who was the first to look away. Stan considered that a victory. He propped himself back into the corner he was in before, and watched as the makeup artist continued her work on Rick.

-

The interviewer was dumber than dirt. She was very clearly trying to get with Rick, but after such an emotional fiasco, he was only able to hit on her at fifty percent capacity. Bratsman, either out of fear that Stan would jump on him again or genuine congratulations, took them all out for celebratory drinks afterwards.

“And tomorrow, you’ll be playing at the Snap Dragon - sold out, as usual! Well done, boys, well done. But tonight, you’re booked for a smaller gig at Snakebite, a venue downtown. We’ll be setting up shortly, but there are still a few hours to kill before showtime. Spend them how you will!”

Rick was pounding back beers like they were water. Stan, on the other hand, was drinking water, keenly aware that he was going to be one of those putting the stage together. 

“I’m gonna get my nipples pierced,” Rick announced to the table, setting his fifth drink down on its coaster. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I know there are plenty of piercing places around here. I’m gonna get them done.”

Birdperson nodded sagely. “I recall you mentioning this several weeks ago.”

Squanchy let out a low whistle in response. “We had a hard time keeping bitches off of you before, but this? This’ll make you irresistible.”

Rick laughed, a brief chortle and an eyeroll. Stan was staring holes into the bottom of his glass, praying to  _ something _ that no one would notice how pink he was. 

Rick noticed. He didn’t say anything, but he noticed.

-

Stage equipment was heavy. There were other workers there, but they were all strangers, and Stan didn’t want to ask for help lifting anything. The sweat under his leather bracelets was starting to build up. It was indistinguishable from the smell of sweat on the rest of him, but Stan made a mental note to ask Rick how to clean his cuffs. 

“Hey,” Bratsman called. “Hey, mullet!”

Stan looked up from the mess of cords he was untangling, but made no move to approach him. Left with the choice between shouting over the crowd of people setting up the stage and scurrying over to speak with Stan one-on-one, he took the latter. Stanley remained unmoving, only watching as a bead of sweat formed on Bratsman’s brow.

Again, he swallowed audibly. “Hey, I shouldn’t have called Rick a fa- err..  _ That _ word. I already apologized to him. I just wanted to let you know that I won’t be doing it again.”

Stan nodded. “Good,” he said.

Bratsman dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief. “I mean, it’s just that the press is hot on my tail, y’know? We’re trying to reach a broad audience range, but if moms aren’t letting their kids listen to them because the singer’s a queer, then that cuts down on profits. I’m sure you understand.”

Stanley’s eye twitched slightly. “Queer” wasn’t as harsh, and he’d heard people calling  _ themselves _ that word, but the way Bratsman said it still left a bad taste in his mouth.

“I understand,” he said anyways, resuming his task of untangling the cords. “I’m glad you apologized to him. You aren’t going to call him that again.”

“I know, I already said tha-”

Another stagehand shouted his name, diverting his attention from what he was saying. He excused himself and made his way over to the other worker without another word to Stan.

-

The show was great. Stan got to watch from backstage this time, excited to see how the mechanics of their performance worked. Through the loose fabric of his barely-even-a-tanktop, Stan could make out a bit of metal visible on each nipple. He wiped some sweat from his face, trying to act like he didn’t notice when Rick showed them off later.

“Hurt like a bitch, man,” he said once they were in the hotel bedroom. “Squanchy had to hold my hand for the second one. Fucking bullshit that they don’t do ‘em both at- at the same time, they make you wait while they prepare the second needle. Sitting there in agony while your titty burns like crazy.”

Stan laughed, nodding and averting his eyes. “Yeah, they look pretty good, man. Happy for you. How long until they’re fully healed?”

Rick groaned. “Like six months. I’m gonna have to put bandages on them or something when I’m fuckin’ so nobody puts their hands on ‘em.”

Stan laughed again. “Best of luck.” Deciding that this conversation was charted for dangerous territory, he changed the subject. “Show was really good tonight.”

“Yeah?” he asked, sitting up on the bed slightly. “Tomorrow’s gonna be at a bigger venue. The crowd is gonna be even crazier, I bet.”

“Looking forward to it,” Stan responded. He paused for a moment, trying to figure out how to phrase his question. “Hey man, are you… Are you alright?”

Rick gave him an incredulous look. “Uh, yeah. I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

Stan rubbed the back of his neck, somewhat regretting his decision. “I dunno, it just seemed like you had a rough day or somethin’. I was just checking.”

“It’s no big deal. That’s showbiz, baby!” he said, shooting exaggerated finger guns in Stan’s direction. Once Stan stopped laughing, Rick’s face fell back down to observe his hands, picking at his nails with a blank expression.

Stan stared for a moment before getting up to turn off the light. “Night, man.”

Silence. Sheets rustled as Stan climbed into bed, but Rick remained sitting upright for a few more minutes.

When Stan woke, Rick was - of course - glued to his side, alarmingly covered in sweat and shaking violently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeehaw i hope you silly-billies enjoyed this chapter. i'm plucking along at the next one, but things have been hectic lately so i can't guarantee it'll be out soon. i'm working on it tho!


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